


Some Damn Sailing Metaphor

by alamorn



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Between Acts One and Two, F/F, Porn with Feelings, Strip Poker, Wicked Grace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-06-27 19:57:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15692334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamorn/pseuds/alamorn
Summary: Hawke lays low and gets laid. She's always been a multitasker.





	Some Damn Sailing Metaphor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sumi/gifts).



Hawke was laying low, a phrase which here meant “playing endless games of Wicked Grace in The Hanged Man.” She was doing so for a few reasons, chief among them Leandra’s attempts to reclaim the Amell name and mansion.

Both Hawke and Leandra considered the reclamation Leandra’s job, and Hawke had comforted herself during the unending night of the Deep Roads by imagining what she would do when she got back to Kirkwall. Drinking had featured in those fantasies, as had carousing, crashing noble parties as the upstart Amell heir…

Fancy cheeses had been dreamt. So had turning the Bone Pit into a profit rather than a dragon infested nuisance. Unfortunately, those dreams had been rather derailed when she came home to see Bethany being led out the door. Suspicions of apostasy alone might have forced her to keep her head down, but no. No, Hawke was laying low because she had recently punched Knight-Captain Cullen in the face, and it wouldn’t do to connect her fist with her mother’s name in the court.

Leandra had comforted herself and, by proximity, Hawke, that _at least_ Hawke had not punched Knight-Captain Cullen as he led Bethany away. Instead, she’d done it in the middle of the Gallows, surrounded by templars and cowed mages, all of them people Cullen needed to _present a certain image to_.

Hawke was fairly certain that wasn’t better, but he hadn’t arrested her on the spot, so.

(“ _Hawke_ ,” Varric had said, “what were you _thinking_?”

Hawke had shrugged as Anders set her broken hand. Cullen’s jaw was stronger than she’d expected. “Can’t remember. He said something about mages not being people, or some such nonsense. It’s all quite a blur, and besides, it’s done.”

“Your mother’s going to kill you,” Isabela had said, sounding rather delighted. “You’re welcome to hideout in my rooms until she’s calmed, sweetling. _I_ love a good spot of violence.”

Isabela had not been far off. Hawke had set the appeal back weeks, and Leandra had started with yelling, graduated to crying, and then combined the two in a snotty, furious mess that sent Hawke fleeing to the Hanged Man with only the clothes on her back.)

So: laying low it was.

Wicked Grace was going only moderately better than the conversation with Cullen. Her playing was badly hampered by the broken hand, as Anders was too busy fighting a plague in Darktown single handedly to mend bones more than it would take to guarantee she kept her dexterity. They’d played enough rounds over enough days that everyone's Dark Roads fortunes had cycled through either Varric or Isabela’s pockets before ending up back with their original owners, generally the next morning.

It was getting, Hawke was disappointed to admit, a bit tedious. She was doing her best not to be angry, as that had gotten her a broken hand and an exile from home, but it left her _bored_ instead, and the table was getting smaller. Anders was too busy, as was Aveline. Bethany’s chair was, of course, empty. Merrill and Fenris gamely showed up every night, but it was Varric and Isabela who kept her busy during the day.

“We should play strip Wicked Grace,” Isabela said. “I’m — and I never expected to say this, pinch me, Varric — tired of taking all of your money.”

Varric pinched her. It all remained the same.

“Well,” said Hawke, grinning, “as long as you don’t ask me to remove my cast, I’m game.”

“I’m not,” Fenris said.

“Boo!” Isabela said. “We want to see you glow!”

He was unconvinced, and they were left with four.

“Will Nora mind if we’re naked in the bar?” Merrill asked.

“Oh, probably,” Varric said. “She’s fussy like that. We should move up to my room.”

Hawke went to the bar and snagged a couple bottles of rum from Corff, pinning one against her chest with her broken hand, and clutching the other in her good hand. Isabela followed her up with the cards, and the game began.

Merrill started losing quickly and badly, which was unsurprising, and Hawke wasn’t far behind her, which was. The problem was that without a shirt to stuff her cards in, Hawke kept dropping them.

“Come over here, sweetness,” Isabela said, patting her lap. “I’ll hold your cards for you.”

Hawke looked her up and down, as if considering the invitation, though she’d already made up her mind. It always paid to make Isabela wait for it, just a little bit. And besides, Isabela was already so delightfully debauched looking, missing her corset, the string to her bodice, and one boot, bare leg propped up on the table.

“Together, we’re guaranteed to win,” Hawke said, folding and making her way to Isabela’s seat. She shifted positions so Hawke could perch comfortably, strong arm bracing Hawke’s back. The contact, bare as Hawke was to the waist, pebbled her nipples, and the night was too hot to pretend any other cause.

Isabela dropped an amused glance to them, and then the game resumed.

“That’s just not fair,” Merrill said. She was swaying slightly, and the first bottle of rum was very low. “I already can’t beat either of you. Varric, should I sit on your lap?”

Varric laughed. “No, Daisy, I don’t think that would help.”

Moving into Isabela’s lap didn’t seem to make Hawke a better player. In fact, she was only losing clothes faster, until she was down to her smalls and a sock. Isabela’s hand was dangerously high on her inner thigh and creeping higher, and she was well and truly drunk, far from angry, and not even a little bit bored.

“I’m out,” Merrill said, dropping her cards.

“We’ll miss you, kitten,” Isabela said, low and throaty, looking directly at Hawke.

“Is this a sex thing?” Merrill asked, pulling on her clothes. “Should I stay?”

“It might be for them, but not in here,” Varric said, retrieving his own shirt and standing, stretching. “Here, I’ll walk you out, Daisy. Hawke, Rivaini, don’t be here when I get back.”

“Don’t you trust us, Varric?” Isabela asked, one hand to her bare chest.

“I’m hurt, really,” Hawke said. “After all we’ve been through together.”

“Oh, I trust you both with my life,” Varric said, pulling on his boots, “but not with my sheets, and certainly not with my desk. Go on, get. Rivaini’s room is just down the hall.”

Isabela stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry at him as he shepherded Merrill out the door.

“Mm,” Hawke said, sliding off Isabela’s lap. “He’s right, you know. I have designs on your virtue.”

“You found it? After all these years?” Isabela searched through the pile of clothes in the center of the table and grabbed her sash, draping it over her shoulders so her nipples were, technically, covered. “Was it in too bad of shape?”

“Oh, awful,” Hawke said, stealing Varric’s coat as revenge and pressing herself against Isabela in a long, hot line, arms over her shoulders. She flicked the tip of her nose against Isabela’s. “One might even call it ravaged.”

“I like that,” Isabela said. “I might even return the favor.”

Hawke pulled herself away without sliding a kiss over that inviting mouth, which was a struggle greater than any fight with a dragonling, or nasty bit of Deep Roads fauna. She took a last full-mouthed gulp from the rum and made her way to Isabela’s room without looking back, Isabela chuckling lowly behind her.

When Isabela followed her in, Hawke dropped Varric’s coat and slammed her against the door, kissing her deeply. Hawke chased the taste of spiced rum from Isabela’s tongue, head buzzing with the mixture of alcohol and arousal.

Hawke shoved a knee between Isabela’s thighs and Isabela thrust against it, grinding her hips hard in quick jerks of motion, smearing her wetness over Hawke’s bare skin. Hawke knocked the sash aside and cupped one of Isabela’s breasts with her good hand.

“I’m sure you get this all the time,” she said, “but, Maker, do I love your tits.” She dropped her head to suck at the nipple and Isabela sighed contentedly, running her strong sailor’s hands through Hawke’s hair and holding her head in place.

“I do,” Isabela said, hips still thrusting. “It’s rather lazy of you, really.”

When she allowed Hawke to lift her head, there was a bruise already starting to form on the curve of her breast. Hawke grabbed Isabela’s hand and brought it to her mouth, kissing each knuckle, and then drawing her fingers into her mouth, tracing her tongue over each rope rough callous.

“I also love your hands,” Hawke said. She turned her attention to the soft skin of Isabela’s wrist, and the hard muscle of her bicep. “Your arms aren’t bad either.”

A moan worked its way out of Isabela’s throat. The movement of her hips got firmer, jerkier. Hawke tried to grab her hip, help with the grind, but she couldn’t grip with the cast on. “Go on, compliment me some more,” Isabela said, and Hawke grinned.

“You have the most beautiful cunt in the world,” Hawke said.

“More,” Isabela said, and Hawke dropped her head, sucked and bit at her neck, pinched her nipple with her good hand, and Isabela shuddered into a halt.

She dropped her head onto Hawke’s shoulder and sighed gustily. “That was good, thank you. Bend over the bed.”

Hawke dropped a kiss on her cheek and went to the bed. She bent over and wiggled her ass, grinning over her shoulder. Isabela sauntered up behind her, the gait of the well-pleased, and palmed her ass. They were both slick with sweat in the humidity of the late summer night and Hawke shivered at the easy glide of Isabela’s hand from the base of her spine the base of her neck. Isabela scratched her nails gently against Hawke’s scalp and Hawke sighed, relaxed into it.

“I do like a woman in just her smalls, though the single sock is less appealing,” Isabela teased.

Hawke rested her cheek on her crossed arms, looking up at Isabela with a fondness that left her head spinning. Or perhaps that was the rum. “The single sock is a fundamental part of the appeal. How else would you know I’m being debauched?”

Without warning, Isabela pushed aside Hawke’s smalls, slid two fingers knuckle deep into her and started pumping lazily. “I’m sure I could spot some tell,” she said. “You have an awful poker face, after all.”

Hawke gasped, her back arching, at a loss for words.

“So wet already,” Isabela purred. “I didn’t know losing at Wicked Grace got you so hot.”

“You know me,” Hawke gasped. “I love to lose.”

Isabela laughed, fingers curling. Isabela’s unlovely hands were equally adept at pulling a response from Hawke’s body as from the ropes of her ship, and Hawke was as tense as naval rigging.

Isabela leaned forward over her back, breasts crushed against Hawke’s shoulder blades to whisper in her ear. “Relax, sweetling.”

Hawke took a deep breath and let it out slowly as Isabela added another finger. The fullness was distracting, delightfully so. There was only the two of them in here, no responsibilities or failures. Isabela slid a fourth finger in and reached around with her other hand to rub at Hawke’s clit.

It was overwhelming. Hawke tried to clutch at the blankets, and pain spiked up her broken hand. “Shit,” she said, not sure whether it was at the pain or the pleasure.

Her orgasm broke over her suddenly, as all things in her life seemed to. She sank trembling to the bed. Isabela flopped down next to her, wiping her hand off on the blanket. “We should do that again,” she said. “You make the most delightful noise when you come.”

Hawke rolled over and stretched. Her body felt slack and loose, like a cut rope, and for once her mind was still. She wasn’t bored or angry. “We should,” she agreed. “I _am_ spending the night, just so you know.”

“We didn’t agree to that,” Isabela said, slinging an arm over her belly and pulling her close.

“We didn’t,” Hawke agreed, “but if I go home now I’ll just get in a fight with Mother or Gamlen, and then I’ll end up back here anyway. Better to just skip those steps, if you ask me.”

Isabela nuzzled at a spot behind her ear. “You’ve convinced me,” she said sleepily.

Hawke turned to kiss her, a bit too tenderly, but she was drunk and Isabela was half-asleep, so she could excuse it. Then she rolled over and let Isabela’s breathing lull her to sleep.


End file.
